“Yes,” Charlotte replied firmly, but in the next moment her resolve deflated a little. “It’s easier if there is someone to fight, even if that someone is the devil himself,” she told her friend sadly. Then she took up her skirts and turned back, making her way quickly along the deck, down the steps, through the passageway to Patrick’s cabin.
He lay insensate, his skin gray as death and at the same time drenched in sweat, upon the very bed where he had made such vital, tireless, explosive love to Charlotte only days before. Candle flames provided the only light, a dim, funereal glow that made Charlotte shiver.
One by one she lighted the kerosene lanterns and blew out the candles. Then she went to the bedside and began, for the thousandth time, to bathe Patrick’s face and upper body with cool water.
“Patrick?” She had whispered his name again and again, and he had not responded, even with the flicker of an eyelash or the twitch of a muscle, but this time he actually opened his eyes.
Charlotte was not comforted by this, for she viewed his soul through those indigo windows, and it appeared to be receding, drawing back from life. Tears brimmed along her lower lashes and she smiled and took one of his hands in hers.
“You’re home,” she said gently. “We’re at anchor, just a stone’s throw from the shore of your island.”
Patrick sighed. “Good,” he said. For some moments he fought visibly to gather strength. “You’re well, Charlotte? The child—?”
She bent, kissed his pale forehead. “I’m fine, Mr. Trevarren, and your baby is just where you left it.”
He smiled at that, and the sight broke Charlotte’s heart as smoothly as a piece of seasoned wood coming under the ax. “That’s good,” he struggled to say. “And the men? How many survive?”
Charlotte’s instinct was to protect Patrick from the truth, but she knew that could not be done. “Twenty-six,” she answered.
“Fourteen perished then,” Patrick said. He closed his eyes once more, and a single tear slid down over his right temple to glitter in his hair.
She squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she told him softly, “but it seems the worst is over. Five of the men who fell ill are recovering now.”
Again Patrick looked at her. “If I die, bury me on the ridge behind the island house—Jacoba will show you the place.”
“You’d better not die, Patrick Trevarren,” Charlotte scolded quickly, holding on to his hand with a tighter grasp, fearing he meant to go right that minute. “I’m depending on you, and so is this child of ours.” She pressed his hand against her belly, hoping to emphasize the reality of the new life they’d conceived together even though there was still no evidence to be felt.
He brought her fingers to his lips, kissed the knuckles. Then he closed his fever-bright eyes and slept.
Charlotte did not let go of his hand, but clutched it in her own as she prayed fervently for Patrick, for their baby, for herself. When there were no words left, no dreams and hopes and pleas that had not been brought before the Almighty, Charlotte stretched herself out beside the man whose soul was joined to hers and slept.
A knock at the cabin door awakened her; she sat bolt upright, fresh from the deepest regions of slumber, and it was a moment before she realized where she was. She turned to Patrick, saw that he was breathing still, and swayed under a crushing flood of gratitude.
“Just a moment,” she called quietly to the visitor waiting on the other side of the door. Rising, Charlotte smoothed her hair and her hopelessly rumpled dress. “Who is it, please?”
“It’s Miss Jacoba McFaylon,” came the reply, in a burr as thick as cold oatmeal. “I’ve come for my beloved captain, and no one will keep me from him, miss, neither you nor that fatheaded Mr. Cochran nor anyone else on this ship.”
Charlotte opened the door and found a plump woman, late in middle age, standing in the outer passage and looking every bit as determined as she’d sounded. She wore a crisply starched housekeeper’s dress and had gray hair and one lazy eye. The other orb, brown and bright as a bird’s, regarded Charlotte with testy curiosity.
“Mr. Trevarren has given orders that he’s not to be taken ashore until all danger is past,” Charlotte said, somewhat lamely, stepping back to admit Mrs. McFaylon, who entered like the fiery breath of God.
“I’ve never followed his damn orders anyway,” the Scotswoman said. She bustled over to the bed, lifted one of Patrick’s eyelids, and peered beneath it.
“Good God, Jacoba,” he blurted out, with more strength than Charlotte had seen him evidence since before his illness, “you’d scare a man straight into perdition without giving it a second thought!”
Jacoba nodded wisely. “I told Mr. Cochran as how you’d come round soon enough, if I could just lay a hand to you, and I was right,” she said. She gestured toward Charlotte. “And who’s this pretty bit, pray tell?”
Charlotte smarted under the older woman’s words and tone; they combined to make her feel like a stray mongrel with mange and a bad smell.
Patrick’s eyes seemed to dance, just for a moment, as he looked past his housekeeper to Charlotte. “She’s my wife—sort of. It’s a long story, I’m afraid—one I haven’t the strength to tell just now. I want you to take very good care of Mrs. Trevarren, Jacoba—no matter what happens.”
The old woman turned to look at Charlotte with that single, plainly discerning eye. “Mrs. Trevarren, is it? Well, the others will not be pleased to hear that, now will they?”
“The others?” Charlotte inquired.
Conveniently Patrick closed his eyes and descended into another deep sleep.
“What others?” Charlotte persisted, drawing closer to Jacoba.
Jacoba waved the question aside. “No time for such silliness,” she said. “We must get the captain to his bed now, where he can be looked after in a proper fashion.”
Not even an hour had passed before Patrick had been put on a litter and taken ashore by boat. Charlotte rode with him, carrying her art supplies and staying stubbornly close to his side. She couldn’t help looking around here, though, for the sea and the island and the sky made a great spectacle, with their violent blues and greens, crimsons and golds.
Parrots and other, smaller birds added dizzying colors of their own—reds and yellows, pinks and whites; the variety seemed endless. Flowers bloomed everywhere, in even more audacious shades, and a sugary scent filled the air.
The small boat was manned by black-skinned natives, and when they reached the shore, they leaped out into the surf and lifted Patrick’s litter between them, like pallbearers carrying a coffin. The captain was only half-conscious, but in a moment of lucidity he barked, “Jacoba!”
The Scotswoman, who had been waiting on the beach, stepped forward, but there was nothing in her manner to indicate that she was in any way cowed by the thunderous summons.
“Here I be, Captain,” she said, with awe-inspiring dignity.
“I gave an order,” Patrick pointed out, struggling to rise from the litter and failing. “I was to remain on board ship until there was no danger of bringing this fever ashore!”
“So you did,” Jacoba conceded, “but there are lots of your orders I don’t pay a mind to, sir, and this be one of them.” She turned her single eye to the two men standing at either end of Patrick’s litter. “Take him to his rooms in the big house, and be quick about it. I’ve got a kettle of my special soup bubbling on the stove, and the sooner we get some down that gullet of his, the better.”
Charlotte was at once relieved and disquieted. She felt a new hope for Patrick’s recovery, and it was an almost holy joy to feel the solid ground under her feet. Still, Jacoba was obviously a force to be reckoned with, and Charlotte did not know whether the older woman was friend or foe.
She scrambled through the deep, soft sand to keep up with the litter bearers, all her attention fixed on Patrick. He was very weak, and the bones of his face showed too plainly under his skin, but he flashed her a brief smile before drifting off again into sle
ep.
Patrick’s house stood high on a hillside, overlooking the turquoise waters of the cove, a gigantic place with white Grecian pillars supporting the roof of the front veranda. Charlotte was too weary to be impressed, though her arms did tighten around her drawing supplies as she regarded it.
They crossed a great lawn, as green and manicured as any in England, and entered through a great double door. The floor of the entryway was of priceless green marble, and there was a tapestry on one wall that surely dated from the sixteenth century.
The work portrayed a number of nymphs in gauzy dresses, lounging around a pool, and Charlotte made herself a silent promise that she would return later and study the scene more closely. While it was beautiful, something about the tapestry troubled her, and she was frowning as she climbed the wide, curving stairway with the others.
Patrick’s quarters took up the entire front of the house, and the enormous bed, with its graceful folds of mosquito netting, overlooked the sea. Three sets of French doors separated the room from a stone terrace large enough to accommodate a table and chairs and numerous potted plants.
The island men took Patrick from his litter and laid him on the bed, dirty clothes and all. Charlotte set her art things on an exquisite table topped with gray marble and approached him, unaware until the moment of impact that Jacoba had the same thought.
“I won’t leave him,” Charlotte said bluntly when she saw the look of challenge in Jacoba’s eye.
Patrick had rallied himself again, however briefly. “Charlotte stays,” he decreed.
Jacoba gave a great sigh. “Very well,” she said, although it was clear from her tone that the concession was against her better judgment. She regarded Charlotte thoughtfully, and at length. “You look as weak and spindly as a baby bird,” she finally announced. “You won’t be much help to the captain if you don’t get some rest and some flesh on those bones, and a hot bath wouldn’t hurt you none, either, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Charlotte lifted a corner of her mouth in a weary smile. “Would it matter if I did mind your saying so?”
Jacoba narrowed her eye for a moment, then let out a booming laugh that did much to ease the tension. “No, miss, not so’s you’d notice. There’s a washroom that way, and I’ll see what I can find you in the way of fresh clothes.”
“I have plenty of dresses on board the ship—”
Jacoba interrupted with a shake of her head. “Won’t do. We’ll boil the fever out of what things we can, but the rest will need burning.”
Charlotte did not want to think of her beautiful, custom-made garments being tossed into a fire, but she knew no unnecessary chances would be taken lest there be a new epidemic among the people on shore.
“What about the crew?” she asked. “Many of them are still sick.”
Jacoba spoke distractedly, her mind evidently fixed on the next task awaiting her busy, competent hands. “There be an old homestead just down the beach; the captain’s men will be looked after there until we’re sure the plague has passed.”
Charlotte nodded and made her way toward the indicated washroom, too weary to think further.
The luxury of the chamber startled her, for she had not seen its like even in Khalif’s palace. There was a great, tile-lined pool, set directly into the floor, and even one of those modern commodes with the pull-chain for flushing. Lush plants, thriving in priceless crockery urns, lined one wall, and there was a high, arched window to let in the vision of the sea.
Charlotte stripped away her ruined dress and washed carefully with scented soap. Presently a smiling woman with beautiful coffee-colored skin entered, bringing towels and a white cotton dress.
“Hello,” Charlotte said, pitifully grateful for the smile. She was a stranger in paradise, and not entirely sure of her welcome. “My name is Charlotte Trevarren.” A frown creased her forehead. Or was she still Charlotte Quade?
The maid executed a curtsy, averting her eyes. “I be Mary Catch-much-fish,” she said. “Miss Charlotte wants food?”
Charlotte’s stomach grumbled at the prospect. “Oh, yes, please.” She took one of the towels from the stone bench where Mary had set them and covered herself modestly as she climbed the steps out of the pool.
Mary bobbed again. “I bring plate to table outside, now Mr. Sun go to other side of house.” With these words, she turned and went out again.
Charlotte put on the white dress, which was too large for her but clean and otherwise comfortable, found a comb and carefully worked the tangles from her wet hair. When she went out into the master bedroom again, Jacoba was spooning some sort of broth into Patrick’s mouth. His eyes, so hollow before on the rare occasions when he’d opened them, brightened when he saw Charlotte approaching the bed.
He held out one hand, and Charlotte went to him, ignoring Jacoba’s palpable disapproval.
“He’ll be needing a bath of his own now,” the housekeeper interceded, her voice blustery.
Patrick actually chuckled, an event that made Charlotte’s beleaguered spirits soar in celebration. “I probably smell like a camel,” he said.
“Worse,” Charlotte assured him, bending to kiss his forehead. A moment later, she raised her eyes to meet Jacoba’s gaze straight on. “I’ll see to my husband’s bath,” she said. “You may go as soon as you’ve finished giving him the soup.”
Jacoba opened her mouth to protest, darted a quick look at Patrick, and then thought better of speaking.
Mary entered, carrying a tray, and Charlotte kissed Patrick again, then followed the good-natured maid out onto the terrace. “I’ll need lots of hot, clean water for the captain, please,” Charlotte said as she sat down at the table in a pool of soft sunshine. An array of fresh and exotic fruits awaited her, along with cold chicken and a delicately flavored rice dish.
“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” the maid replied, with another curtsy.
Charlotte was so hungry that she was tremulous, but as she ate, the weakness subsided and she felt steady again, if tired. The view of the sun-dappled sea revived her a little too, though she was glad to be back on shore again.
Restored, she left her tray for Mary and went inside. The requested water waited in tall ewers, still steaming, and cloths, basins, and towels had been laid out as well. There was no sign of Jacoba, and Patrick had drifted back into one of his fitful sleeps.
Gently, tenderly, Charlotte undressed this man who was her soul mate if not her true husband, and began to bathe him. The process took some considerable time, and Patrick did not awaken, though he sometimes stirred. Maybe it was Jacoba’s special herbal soup, maybe it was being in a safe and comfortable place again, but color was rising under his pale skin, and Charlotte could sense a growing strength in him.
When he was clean again, when even his rich, raven-dark hair had been washed and gently combed and pulled back the way he liked it, Charlotte curled up beside him in her borrowed dress, yawned, and followed him into the solace of slumber.
She awakened when she felt a familiar hand on her breast. Her senses leaped in response, pulling her suddenly to full consciousness, and she raised herself on one elbow to look into Patrick’s face.
The room was filled with moonlight, and someone, probably Mary or Jacoba, had lowered the mosquito netting into place, giving the bed a misty sort of privacy. The air was warm, the night filled with a soft symphony of cricket-song, an ocean breeze rustling in the palm trees nearby, and the combined heartbeats of two lovers.
“Charlotte,” Patrick said, and it was as though the name had cost him everything to say, and yet been worth the price. With the same hand that had caressed her breast, he lowered the neckline of her dress and bared her.
She knew what he wanted, and yearned just as deeply to give it. Charlotte moved close to him, brushed his mouth lightly with her hardening nipple, and he took it hungrily and suckled hard, as though starved for her.
Charlotte crooned with involuntary pleasure, for attending Patrick in this particular way always
excited her, always filled her with a sense of sweet power. She entwined her fingers in his hair and urged him closer. After a time, she gave him her other breast, and he drank greedily from that one as well.
Finally he broke away, making a sound that might have been a groan or a laugh. “I’ve started something I’m not strong enough to finish,” he lamented, his eyes glittering in the darkness as he regarded Charlotte, who lay trembling beside him now with her dress down around her waist. “Still, I want to see pleasure in your face as much as I want to watch the sun rise tomorrow.”
Charlotte’s eyes were stinging with tears, for there had been many hours when she’d thought she would lose this man who meant more to her than her next breath. Now it was plain that he was going to live. “Another time,” she said softly.
But Patrick shook his head. “Now,” he answered. Then he took her hand and pressed her own fingers firmly to the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. His hand moved atop hers, setting the rhythm and at the same time preventing escape.
Charlotte groaned, her legs widening involuntarily. “Patrick,” she gasped, breathless, her head already tossing back and forth on the linen-covered pillow. “This is—scandalous—”
“Ummm,” he agreed. “Scandalous. You’re beautiful, Charlotte.”
She convulsed softly under his fingers and her own, but the tide of passion only rose higher. “For an almost-wife?”
He increased the pace, made a low sound of approval as she responded. “For a saucy little vixen,” he replied.
Her pelvis bucked and she cried out as a particularly keen shaft of pleasure went through her. “Dear God, Patrick—I can’t bear it—it’s too strong—”
“And getting stronger,” he said.
Charlotte was fevered with delicious desperation. “I’m going to come apart…”
“Yes,” he agreed, and when he bent to tongue her nipple briefly, Charlotte’s prediction came true and she splintered into a million fiery pieces. While she thrashed in Patrick Trevarren’s vast bed, he watched and savored her every response.
Morning found Patrick stronger but also distracted and more than a little distant. He sent Charlotte out of the room and spent a long time conferring with Mr. Cochran. When the first mate had gone, looking grim as he passed along the hallway, Charlotte hurried back to her husband’s bedside.
Taming Charlotte Page 23
